“I expect she’ll move to Tucson or Phoenix right away,” Judd reasoned.
Tracy sighed. “I suppose so. It was just so cruel, what she said.”
The scalding tears that she’d suppressed burst out. She leaned against the wall and sobbed, not just for Patrick, beloved as he had been, but for the manner of his death. If only he knew that Mary had held him against her warm young breast and deeply mourned him.
“Here, sweetheart.” Judd took Tracy in his arms and let her cry till she could stop before he gave her his big handkerchief. “It helps to know that Patrick didn’t want to live the way he was. He hoped for a while to get back some use of his left side, but when it got pretty clear he wouldn’t, it was worse than jail for him.”
“But he—he laughed. He joked and told stories.”
“Yes,” said Judd. “And at night, when everyone was gone, don’t you reckon he cried?”
Tracy had no answer.
Tivi had gone to tell Shea before taking Mary to Last Spring. Shea, Geronimo and Don Aniceto came up almost as the doctor did. Vashti was in her room.
The look in Shea’s eyes as he gazed down at his father made Tracy resolve not to add to his grief by telling him what his stepmother had done. Patrick was dead. There would be enough trouble over his holdings without embittering the struggle. Vashti knew her guilt. Let that punish her.
The doctor made his examination, asked questions, filled in the death certificate and left. Singly and in groups, the vaqueros came, hats in hand, brown faces sorrowful, to pay their respects. Patrick was godfather to many of the younger, the working companion of the older, and the friend of all of them.
Shea didn’t stay long. After a few silent moments, he took his father’s hands and pressed them to his face. Bending, he kissed the wrinkled cheek. Then he turned swiftly away, not looking at anyone. Geronimo followed, and Don Aniceto who was weeping unashamedly.
The hearse and funeral director arrived. Vashti had pulled herself together enough to make the arrangements, with Judd’s help. Day after tomorrow, Patrick’s body would be brought back to the ranch to be buried in the family graveyard as he’d desired.
Two of the Sanchezes carried Patrick to the hearse. Tracy watched the dark-gray vehicle out of sight. She could still not believe that the man who’d been like her father, who’d kept his zest in life even when blind and paralyzed, was really dead. She longed to be with Shea. But he’d left without a word.
“I want to go home,” she said.
Judd helped her to his RV. “I’ll take you.”
When they parked by the stream, he caught her arm as she started to open the door. “Tracy. What do you plan to do now?”
She hadn’t really thought, though staying at the ranch on Vashti’s sufferance was unthinkable, even if the older woman had allowed it. “I don’t know,” Tracy said slowly. “I’d like to finish my book. Maybe I can rent something around Tubac and Patagonia.”
“Why not stay here?”
Tracy gave a bitter laugh. “Vashti may leave the ranch as fast as she can, but she won’t want me here.”
“I do.” As she stared at him, Judd took her face in his hands. The smoldering light in his eyes sent a tingling shock through her. “I never thought I’d get married, but you’ve changed my mind. Stay here, Tracy. Let’s get married.”
Taken completely by surprise, Tracy tried to draw away, but he laughed and found her lips. His mouth was hot, avid, seeking. Tracy didn’t fight. She only was still.
After a moment, Judd lifted his head. “I guess it’s the wrong time for kissing. But hell, I’ve got to keep you from running off someplace!”
“I can’t marry you, Judd.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I told you before. I don’t love you.”
He snorted. “I suppose you still think you’re in love with someone else?”
She thought of Shea as he’d been that day with Patrick and sorrow for him tightened her throat. “I am in love, Judd.”
“So when’s the wedding?”
“There may not be one. All the same—”
He got out and came around to help her out. “We’ll talk about it later. This isn’t a good time.”
“It won’t make any difference.”
He grinned at her cockily. “We’ll see.”
He steadied her across the foot-log and walked her to the cabin. “Take it easy,” he told her. “And don’t do anything sudden. You can stay at the ranch even if you don’t marry me.”
Dropping a kiss on her forehead, he moved away, while Tracy went inside and into Mary’s arms.
Tracy had known that Mary liked Patrick, but she hadn’t known how deep the affection went. “There’s no one left like him,” Mary sobbed. “Him or Grandpa. That bitchy wife of his!”
“She loved him,” Tracy said. “But she couldn’t handle what happened to him.”
“She’s still a bitch.”
“Why, yes, I think she is,” Tracy agreed. “Let’s not worry about her. What do you want to do now?”
“I’ve saved most of my wages. Enough to finish up my mechanics’ course if I can find a job in Nogales that’ll pay room and board.”
“Poor Geronimo!”
Mary sniffed. “Maybe when I’m certified, he’ll believe I’m good, and we might work something out. But I’m going to be a mechanic and I won’t put up with a macho dude who wants to keep me barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen!”
“I can see it now,” teased Tracy. “When you have a little girl, you’ll give her a tool set instead of a doll.”
“It’d do her a lot more good!”
Comforted by each other, they got supper and did the dishes. Mary got out her texts and studied while Tracy worked on her notes. The busy, companionable silence gave Tracy an idea. She’d already been trying to figure some way to advance Mary the money to finish her training without offending her. What might be more acceptable would be to rent a house they could share till they were both through with their projects. Tracy could plead her ankle as a reason for needing someone to help cook and keep house.
Le Moyne came to put his big head on Tracy’s lap. Unless Shea really wanted him back, she would keep the dog. He’d need a big yard, which would complicate things, but she’d become too fond of him to give him up unless she had to.
And Güera? A pang shot through Tracy but she hardened herself. She could board Güera at a stable, but the mare would be far happier and healthier running free. Shea would have to take her and Sangre.
Mary yawned for the third time in five minutes. Tracy put down her pencil. “Do you kick?” she asked.
“My sister always said so.” Mary grinned.
Tracy shrugged. “I moan and groan. We ought to do just fine.”
XVII
At Shea’s insistence, the funeral was held in the sala of the old ranch house. It had been Patrick’s home, and the vaquero families felt welcome there. Patrick had belonged officially to the Episcopal church in Nogales, whose priest read the service. Then Judd, Shea, Geronimo and Chuey Sanchez carried the coffin up the slope to the little iron-fenced cemetery.
Patrick was buried between his second wife, Judd’s mother, and his own mother, Christina. His father, Sant, was beside Christina, and a little distance from them was Johnny Chance, Christina’s lover and the father of Tracy’s offbeat side of the family. Caterina and James had markers, as did Shea, the San Patricio. Strange. A little turquoise bird, discolored by time, was nestled by the earlier Shea’s cross. Here was the legendary Talitha beside her patient Marc, and there was the first grave of all, that of Socorro, the Spanish girl who’d become the ranch’s patroness.
Tracy felt an overwhelming surge of kinship with these people of her blood whose stories she’d grown up with. How good that Patrick would rest with them! She wept as the grave was filled, not only for Patrick, but because she must go away.
The lawyer had come down for the funeral and had asked if he could read the will that e
vening before going back to town. Tracy had told him she was a foster-child with her own inheritance, so there was no use in her waiting, but balding, rosy-cheeked Mr. Phelps asked her to stay, and Mary waited with her.
The will began with a surprise and kept on with them. Judd inherited the main part of the ranch, but Shea was left the old ranch house and several hundred acres along the highway. “Maybe he can reclaim the land,” Patrick’s words ran. “However that may be, I charge him to never sell the house but to pass it to his children.”
Judd recovered first. “I think you’ll agree that land’s past redemption,” he said. “But it’s worth plenty commercially. I’ll bet Fricks—”
Mr. Phelps held up a hand for quiet. Vashti received property in Tucson and Phoenix and assorted investments along with life tenancy of the new house. If she ceded that right, Judd was to remunerate her.
There were small legacies for all the vaquero families and a provision that they should be employed for life.
“To Mary O’Rourke who has brightened my night, I leave $20,000 to complete her mechanic’s training or buy a trousseau or for whatever she chooses. I also ask that she be allowed to work at the ranch if she desires.”
Vashti, though she’d been left rich, glared at the amazed young Apache woman. Tracy laughed with delight and squeezed her friend’s hand. Good for Patrick!
Then came the biggest surprise of all. “Since my foster-daughter, Tracy Benoit, has found a home at Last Spring, I do give and bequeath to her the hundred acres comprising that part of the ranch. I remind her that she is the last woman of our blood on the ranch, and it has been our women who often have preserved it.”
Tracy’s heart swelled. Knowing how fiercely protective Patrick was of the Socorro, she’d never dreamed he would leave her a portion. Tears blurred her eyes. She promised him silently that there was one part, at least, that would never go to the developers.
“But Last Spring’s the core of Vistas Unlimited’s acquisition,” Vashti cried. “The whole plan revolves around that hot spring as an attraction!”
Mr. Phelps spread his palms. “That’s what wills are for, Mrs. Scott. A person is allowed to dispose of what he or she owns.”
“But that land’s vital!”
Phelps peered at Vashti over his spectacles. “I would suggest to you, Mrs. Scott, that your husband left you well enough off so that you scarcely need be concerned about maximum profits from what he chose to give his foster-daughter.”
Vashti’s mouth thinned. “I may challenge that will! Claim undue influence. She came back here, buttering him up, doing that homestead act he thought so spunky, visiting him every day! She—”
“She kept him company while you lounged around the pool or played tennis with your buddies,” Mary cut in. She gave Vashti a look that made the other woman flinch. “Take it to court, Mrs. Scott. There are things a jury would certainly be interested in hearing about you.”
Judd said smoothly, “Look, everybody’s on edge. We can work out details later between ourselves. Mr. Phelps, how about a drink and dinner before you start back?”
“The drink would be welcome,” Phelps said thankfully.
He sat down by Vashti. Judd moved toward the bar. “What would you like, Tracy?”
“Nothing, thanks.” She paused near the door with Mary. “We’re going home.” It really was home now. Hard to realize, but wonderful.
“I’ll be over soon,” Judd promised. “Shea, is it still bourbon on the rocks?”
“I’ve got to go.”
Judd frowned slightly. “Brother, we’ve got some talking to do.”
“I don’t know what about,” Shea said. “But you know where to find me.”
Outside, he slowed down long enough to give Mary a quick smile. “Thanks for all you did for Dad.”
Tears sparkled in Mary’s eyes. “I enjoyed being with him.”
His face was unreadable as he looked down at Tracy. “I suppose you’ll make a killing with Vistas Unlimited.”
His assumption that she would rasped on her overstrained nerves like sandpaper on raw flesh. “It’s my land,” she flung at him. “I’ll do what I judge best with it.”
Now why, when he’d made such hasty conclusions, did he look as if she’d slapped him? She almost softened her words, but he turned his back abruptly and strode to his pickup.
“The hell with him!” she said under her breath, but she was fighting tears.
Mary shook her head. “How come you two can’t just level about how you feel?”
“The way you and Geronimo do?” Tracy gibed.
“We know how the other one feels,” Mary said grimly. “Maybe that’s our trouble. And I’d guess this money will really get his macho up. But you and Shea are different. Say mean things and hold yourselves apart like you were scared to come close.”
“I’ve gone as far toward him as I can till he shifts a little in my direction.”
Mary grinned ruefully as they got in the Toyota. “Got your mule up? Patrick sort of hoped—”
“What?”
“That you’d—well, you know, marry one of the sons.”
“I don’t know if I’ll marry anyone,” said Tracy darkly. “But, bless Patrick, I do have a home!”
“You’re really staying?”
“Maybe not all the time, but it’ll be my base. I’ll get some remodeling under way. And you can stay as long as you like.”
“Best offer I’ve ever had,” Mary said. “Though I’m not sure Judd’ll offer me a job.”
“You could keep pretty busy just on Shea’s and Geronimo’s pickups.”
“I’ll get certified first.” Mary lapsed into silence, but when they parked at Last Spring, she looked soberly at Tracy. “If I ever have a boy, I’ll call him Patrick.”
“So will I,” said Tracy.
In the days that followed, Tracy would find herself planning to tell Patrick something that would entertain him, then wince as she remembered. Apart from grieving for him, his death made her feel aimless, unnecessary. Sometimes it had been difficult to get over to see him, but she realized now that it had been good to feel that someone needed her.
When Tracy thought of Vashti’s last cruel words to Patrick, she grew so angry and depressed that two days after the funeral, even though her ankle was still weak, she began forcing herself to stay in her blind and wait for pictures. Just being outside helped, but she missed Patrick more than she could have imagined.
Mary had enrolled in classes in Nogales and would be gone three days a week, starting that day. For the first time at Last Spring, Tracy felt lonesome.
Thoughts of Shea plagued her, too. Maybe she should have told him she had no intention of ever selling Patrick’s amazing and wonderful gift, but why should she explain when he was so ready to think the worst?
She loved him, there wasn’t much she could do about that, but she wasn’t about to be his doormat. If there was any hope for them, he had to show a little faith and trust.
One night she was playing her guitar when Mary looked up from her books and squealed. Tracy looked, too.
A pale small heart-shaped face peered in at them, large round eyes staring. The head bobbed back and forth. “Why, it’s one of the barn owls!” Tracy said. “But he’s surely too young to scavenge on his own. I’ll bet he fell out of the nest.”
“Think we could raise him?” Mary asked.
“His parents could do it better.” Even if it hadn’t been true, Tracy shrank from catching the mice and boned hairy things the owlets needed to cast properly. Tracy stood up a bit reluctantly. “I’ll get the ladder and put him back in the nest.”
She wasn’t enthusiastic about risking the adults’ ire if they caught her near the nest, but there was no telling how long the little guy had been without food so she didn’t want to wait till morning.
“I’ll bring the ladder and flashlight,” Mary offered.
Tracy put on a jacket, a hat to shield her head, and got an old shirt to swaddle the w
aif. He made alarmed clicking sounds with his beak and tried to flop over, extending his claws, when she started to pick him up. She dropped the shirt on his talons, gave it an extra thickness, and picked him up.
Fortunately, there was full moonlight. “If we don’t need the flash at the nest, don’t turn it on,” Tracy said. “No use bringing the parents down on us.”
Though the tree was in shadow, they located the hollow. Mary braced the ladder and Tracy started up. There was a blood-curdling screech, a swift rush of wings, and claws swept the hat away. As she clung to the ladder, a second fury scudded above her, talons plowing through her hair.
Mary put the flash on full beam. In the second’s respite, Tracy reached up to thrust the stray into the nest, shielded her head with her arm as the outraged adults dared the light to attack again.
She reached the foot of the ladder, grabbed it and ran. The owls, content at having driven off an invader, left off the chase.
“Did they scalp you?” asked Mary.
Gingerly fingering through her hair, Tracy felt a slight moistness. “Just a scratch. That steamwhistle of theirs, though!”
“Next one falls out, we’ll have owlet soup,” said Mary. She stopped. “Do you hear a motor?”
In a minute Tracy did. Headlights showed spottily through the trees as a vehicle nosed up the canon. Maybe it was Shea. And maybe it isn’t, she warned her racing heart. It could be another hoodlum.
“Let’s go in and lock up till we know who it is,” she said.
“It’s times like this I’d like to have a shotgun,” Mary said.
“Hey, now, descendant of Nana! Where’s your confidence?”
“About where yours is,” Mary retorted.
They barred the door, pulled the curtains, got out their most formidable knife and a chunk of firewood that could make a club. “The hell with being a picturesque homesteader,” said Mary. “When are they installing that phone?”
“Next week,” said Tracy, laughing in spite of her nervousness. “We’re acting silly! That’s probably Geronimo, or at least someone friendly.”
“Probably,” granted Mary. “But I still get the creeps over our blond friend. Here, let me put something on that owl scratch.”
A Mating of Hawks Page 19
